Waking Up
by Quirk'd
Summary: Nika/47: Nika's POV after the tranquillising scene. How can a person accept that some things can't change?


**Disclaimer: I don't own Hitman, much as it pains me to say. Please don't sue me.**

Waking Up

Nika Boronia woke up with what was left of a light tranquilliser burning in her neck and a gentle breeze playing over her exposed breasts.

Shock registered first.

You fucker. You arrogant, cold fucker.

With a groan and a slurred curse, she attempted to sit up… only to fall back against the coverlet on which she now

lay, filled with helpless fury.

_Bastard could've at least used something less damn strong_, she thought, staring up at the dark hotel room ceiling.

The curtains billowed in the night wind, and Nika suddenly felt very, very alone. And dirty. And angry.

Her hand, still heavy and clumsy from that oh so fucking wonderful tranquilliser, brushed against smooth red silk.

She began to remember.

His fingertips, hesitating and almost fearful, gently touch her exposed thigh… Red silk slithers down to gather at her waist… His unreadable eyes, intense and filled with that strange thing she can't look away from, stare up at her… She leans down and breathes words into his neck, almost revelling in the fact that he's tense and unmoving beneath her… And that sting, that sting that she doesn't see coming… not just because she is drunk, either, but because he's so fucking fast and efficient and professional… A flash dark surprise (what the…?) before she slips into unconsciousness…

Damnit.

She closed her prickling eyes, clenching the material in her fists.

Well, wasn't this just _lovely_.

She'd gotten rejected (in no uncertain terms) by a man who probably hadn't gotten a decent fuck in years, if ever, despite the fact that she'd done everything right. The smirks, the taunting, the games, the walk. Everything.

God, what a mess.

What a mess.

She attempted, slowly this time, to sit up. The room spun, but she managed to keep from fainting again. She couldn't help a small flicker of pride, and a corner of her mouth twitched upward.

…The half-smile was soon banished by one of _those_ thoughts, the kind that she couldn't stop.

The last time she'd been this… out of it… was the… the last time Bellicroft had caught her.

Well, the last time that Bellicroft had finished with her _after_ he'd caught her.

Her skin crawled.

C'mon, Nika. Do you wanna think about that right now?

_No. No, I don't._

_So what you gonna do then, now that we got the sexual non-event with your kidnapper-slash-saviour-slash-protector cleared up?_

"I'm going to get up, and get clean," she whispered into the dark.

Her lips tasted like a bitter, bad wine.

_So do it. You're a whore, Nika, but that doesn't necessarily make you weak._

She stretched out her legs gingerly, weary for any more traces of the drug. She noted, woodenly, that he hadn't covered her… or even bothered to move her much, really.

_Why the hell would he, though?_ she wondered, carefully placing a bare foot onto the carpet.

She imagined him calmly pushing her limp body off his, calmly rebuckling his belt. He did everything calmly. Grimacing, she pulled the red dress back up to cover herself.

What was she to him, anyway? Cover? Information? Distraction?

Not an opportunity for sex, apparently. Or anything fucking else.

Her throat felt dry, tight, and burning.

But, as it so happened, there was no _way_ she was going to cry over that son of a bitch.

With that in mind, she got up and stumbled drunkenly towards the bathroom.

Getting out of the dress and into the shower wasn't that hard. She'd expected it to be more difficult: her hands were all messed up and shaky, and she told herself it was just the damned injection.

Just that, and nothing more.

She left the lights in the bathroom off and let the scalding water and steam envelop her. Scrubbing her skin almost raw, lathering every expensive lotion and oil she could get her hands on, she mumbled to herself.

"Crazy damn psychopath…"

She dried herself off in the dark. A few wet strands of hair clung to her tattooed cheek.

"…he doesn't want me, well _fuck_ him…"

Deciding to just not wear anything, she staggered towards the bed. It was far too much effort to get dressed at this point.

If he had a problem with her being naked, he could just deal with it.

"…where the hell is he, anyway…?"

The thought crossed her mind that he was avoiding her, but she dismissed it. He didn't avoid people: ignore them, yes. Drag them all over fucking Russia, yes. Invite them to dinner under _false pretences_ to kill a man in a bathroom, yes.

Stab them in the neck to stop them coming on to him, yes.

He was probably off killing people. Again.

A part of her knew that she was being unfair: _if_ he was off killing people, he had good reason to. The same part of her knew that he'd dragged her all over fucking Russia for a reason: to save her life.

To save her life, because… maybe… because he wanted to.

Which was half the reason she'd tried to…well, she'd been **wrong**, okay? That's all. A simple case of misplaced judgment.

Nika bit her lip, and climbed into the cold bed. What had been smouldering anger was slowly turning dead and heavy, like a black stone in her stomach. Anger was a lot easier to deal with than misery.

The sheets of the bed were icy, and she shivered. Shadows played across the room, and she heard cars pass by the hotel. She listened for a while, finally accepting the fact that sleep wasn't going to be coming anytime soon, sedatives or no.

_I'm probably going to have a hangover tomorrow, to neatly finish off the overall crappy state of affairs. Beautiful._

Then faintly, she heard a key turning in the lock.

He was back.

Without a moment's thought, she snapped her eyes closed, positioned herself with her back to the door and began to breathe heavily. Feigning sleep was a skill she'd acquired from her endless nights with Belicoff.

Near silent footsteps approached the bed, and she felt the bed sink beneath his weight.

The unmistakable smell of gunpowder reached her nose, and she swallowed a sigh.

He'd definitely been off killing people.

A couple moments passed; Nika lay still and silent, hardly daring to breathe. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears; he must've been able to hear it, it seemed impossible that he wouldn't. She waited for him to say something, anything. Nothing came.

Then, she felt him carefully pull the covers over her bare body.

It was nothing special really: just a man protecting a woman from the cold of the night.

But the next morning, as he dressed for whatever-it-was-they-were-doing-next (he never told her anything and she learned to stop asking, much), she came to stand before him. Close. Nearly touching him.

He looked at her, apprehensive and cautious: a warning flashing in his dark eyes.

The warm sunlight held them both in a silent moment of held-breath. She felt a ghost needle sting her neck, and phantom covers brush her skin.

She'd forgive him, but there was nothing to forgive. He was the way he was, just like she was the way she was. Some things couldn't change, no matter how much she wanted them to.

She gently took the red tie between her fingers and helped him the only way she could. And in those few moments, Nika Boronia knew she'd never be able to let him go.

FIN

**A/N: It didn't quite turn out the way I wanted, but it was the best I could do. I apologise if there's anything wrong with this, event-wise, since I haven't watched the movie in a while. I thought of this really late at night… how **_**did**_** Nika react after the whole infamous tranquillising-thing? Oh, and this is my second fanfic ever, so please be kind and review. Reviews would not only make my world go round, they'd make it spin :) Thanks go to **_**breadandchoc**_**: a brilliant writer who I truly admire for her talent, creativity and intelligence. She is a living legend.**


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